I let out a hideous growl, low and throaty and both dogs, tails tucked, retreat to opposite corners. I walk back to the rug, un-bunch it, walk three times in a circle, curl up.

The sound of a single leather pump tapping on the concrete raises me from a fitful slumber. It’s my mother, standing with arms crossed, her mouth a stern line of red lipstick. She’s got a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops in a plastic bag at her feet.

I stretch, try to hide my nakedness.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” I say, shaking my wild mane of tangled hair.

“Oh don’t give me that,” she says, waging a finger at me. “Fifty-six years and your father’s never once been picked up by the dogcatcher. I’m so ashamed.”

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comments:

You've given us more than a dog-tale..and I am trying to piece together the anomalies - the clothes in the bag, the 56 years...I feel exposed myself leaving the first comment..thank you for making me think...great write as ever..Jae

I enjoyed it. For somebody else it would be perfect. For you the writing is a bit too much, almost verging on the pretentious. Yet the story works and as I said for somebody else it would be amazing. But I love your writing because usually it's written down to the bone--not to make the worst pun in history

I'm not sure I got this one. Is he human, dog, werewolf, or turns into a dog? The end made me think he was human, a dog really does not need to cover his nakedness. Would love to read more and figure it out.

Thom Gabrukiewicz is both a communicator and a writer of flash fiction. Most of what he writes is kind of dark, with occasional forays into the light.
He’s a winner of some awards and has covered two Winter Olympics. He’s also written a guidebook about hiking with dogs.
He’s fiercely loyal and has a malevolent side that seems to visit less and less. He’s both a hopeless romantic and a realist.
He's currently working on community wellness issues in Wyoming.